


Let Me Be Your Anchor

by thegirlwhoknits



Series: We Learned the Sea [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhoknits/pseuds/thegirlwhoknits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a symptom of just how oblivious his pack could be that Peter was the only person to notice something wrong with Stiles.  To be fair, everyone else had their own distractions, and Peter had a peculiar fondness for the boy. But they were werewolves, for heaven’s sake. They should have at least noticed the change in his scent, if not his behavior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Be Your Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> As the lovely [Red1999](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Red1999/pseuds/Red1999) points out, Peter's way is not the best way to deal with Stiles' problems. Don't use Peter Hale as a role model, kids!
> 
> "Cold turkey is definitely not the way to go when trying to help someone with their drug dependency. While frequently shown in TV and movies, it has little credibility in reality. It is best to have professional medical support as sudden withdrawal can have dangerous side effects and there are other drugs that are typically used to counteract these life threatening impacts. Also, with modern pharmacology there is no need to go through a brutally painful cold turkey as there are drugs to assist with this and psychiatric assistance to aid with the psychological side of addiction."

It was a symptom of just how oblivious his pack could be that Peter was the only person to notice something wrong with Stiles.  To be fair, everyone else had their own distractions, and Peter had a peculiar fondness for the boy. But they were werewolves, for heaven’s sake. They should have at least noticed the change in his _scent_ , if not his behavior.

It also helped that Peter, as the senior member of the pack (Stiles _loved_ to tease him about the ‘senior’ part), and Stiles, as its fledgling Emissary, were often thrown together for research purposes.  He noticed the bags under the teenager’s eyes, the way his clothes began to hang looser on his body, and the mood swings.  He also noticed just how often Stiles slunk away to bathrooms or other private places, especially during long pack meetings or research sessions.

After a week or two of having his concerns shrugged off by Derek and Scott, he decided to take matters into his own hands.  He entered Stiles’s room while the boy was at school and set about carefully and methodically searching it.  He left nothing out of place, knowing that if Stiles felt someone was on to him he’d just start hiding things better.  Finally he found what he was looking for, at the back of a locked drawer in Stiles’s desk: a stash of pill bottles, some prescription, some unmarked.  Only one of the prescriptions—the Adderall—was in Stiles’s name.  It was a hodgepodge assortment of drugs; among the ones Peter recognized were Klonopin, Xanax, and various stimulants and sleeping pills.  He supposed he should be grateful not to find any needles or harder street drugs, but this alone was enough to make his blood run cold.  He suppressed his immediate urge to flush all the pills, and started formulating a slightly more subtle plan.

 

Two days later he was dragging a reluctant Scott up the Stilinskis’ steps as if at gunpoint.  It had taken only a few hours to fabricate the necessary paperwork and mock up a website; the rest of the time had been wasted browbeating the two Alphas into accepting his wisdom.  As usual.

The sheriff answered the door, as planned.  Peter had deliberately picked an hour when Stiles’s father would still be home, and Stiles himself hopefully asleep or barely awake.

“Scott, Peter…” John still side-eyed Peter a little, but he’d actually grown accustomed to the older wolf being around, and even seemed to appreciate his humor more than most. “To what to I owe this pleasure?”

Peter let Scott take the lead, as Alpha.  He needed to make this look as official as possible if he were to have any hope of pulling it off.

Scott shifted uncomfortably.  “We have some Pack business to discuss with you, about Stiles.  Uh, mind if we come in?”

“Of course! Sorry, I’m not completely awake yet.  Would you guys like some coffee?”  The sheriff waved them inside, and they followed him into the kitchen and settled at the table while he pulled down mugs.  Once everyone was seated and had their coffee, Scott reached into his backpack and pulled out the brochures and paperwork Peter had given to him.  He slid them over to John, who glanced at them briefly before looking up with a raised eyebrow.

“So, there’s this, uh, conference thingy…” Scott began.  And stopped.  Peter sighed.  He really was going to have to do everything himself.

“It’s a werewolf convention.  For the packs from California and the Pacific Northwest.  It’s an opportunity for the packs to meet one another, socialize, formulate or shore up treaties, et cetera. The Hale-McCall Pack has been invited to send two representatives,” Peter interjected smoothly.

“A _werewolf_ convention? You guys have _conventions?”_   The sheriff’s eyebrows looked like they were going to disappear into his hairline.  Then he shook himself.  “Okay, but what does this have to do with Stiles?  Wouldn’t it make more sense for Scott and Derek to go, since they’re the Alphas?”

Scott took over on this point, it being the only one he had a firm grasp of.  “Actually, the Alphas themselves aren’t invited.  According to Derek, it’s led to too much conflict in the past, because Alphas are naturally competitive and aggressive.  Each pack is asked to send their Emissary and a senior member of the pack qualified to negotiate and speak on their behalf.”

“Which is where you come in, I’m guessing,” the sheriff said to Peter.

“Since the rest of the pack is composed of teenagers, yes.  I’m the only person besides Derek with the necessary knowledge of werewolf etiquette.  Not that we’ll be negotiating anything this time.  This is just the first step in becoming a recognized pack; we’ll mostly be seeing and being seen.”

“So, basically what you’re asking me to do here is give my permission for my seventeen-year-old son to accompany a thirty-five year-old murderer to a hotel full of werewolves for a week?  And I suppose you’ll be sharing a room?” He arched an eyebrow at Peter.

“A suite, with separate bedrooms, but yes,” Peter replied smoothly.

Sheriff Stilinski shuffled through the brochures one more time, let out a heavy sigh, and looked back up.  “It should probably worry me that this sounds a helluva lot safer than anything else Stiles has done for the past two years.  Fine.  He could use a break, anyway, and if Scott and Derek are comfortable sending you two together, I guess I’m alright with it.  He calls in _every night_ , though.”

“Not a problem.”

“Do you want me to go wake Stiles up so you can talk to him about it?”

Scott spoke up quickly. “No, it’s fine. Just tell him there’s a pack meeting at Derek’s tonight and we’ll fill him in then.  Thanks, Mr. Stilinski!”  He drained his coffee in one gulp and stood, looking ready to bolt.  Peter stood more gracefully, shook John’s hand, and hauled Scott out of the house before he could say anything stupid.

 

Stiles was silent and sullen on the drive to the resort.  He’d argued vehemently—and uncharacteristically—against the plan through the whole pack meeting.  Peter suspected it was because he knew he’d have little chance of hiding his drug use alone with him for a week.  They’d finally talked him down; having a chance to observe Stiles’s behavior through the lense of the information Peter had given them, Scott and Derek now saw the signs he’d told them about and stood firmly behind him for a change.

The resort was in the mountains, and, for verisimilitude, actually did host werewolf conventions, though usually in the fall.  The owners were a pair of retired Emissaries.  He had a good enough relationship with them to enlist them to back up his story during the sheriff’s inevitable fact-finding.  They were greeted pleasantly and given the key to a room on the third floor.  Stiles seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts throughout the process, but as they rode up in the elevator Peter could feel the boy’s eyes burning a hole in the side of his head.

After they’d reached the room and Peter clicked the deadbolt shut behind them, Stiles slumped on the king-size bed heavily.

“There’s no conference, is there.” Stiles’s voice contained none of the anger or outrage Peter had expected.  He just sounded…tired.

“No,” he said simply.  He watched Stiles glance around the studio suite, obviously noting the lack of a second bedroom, or even a second bed.  There was a small kitchenette, and an open door in the corner led to a generously-sized bathroom, complete with a whirlpool tub.

“Well, I guess if I’m going to be molested and/or murdered, this is a classy place for it. Thoughtful of you, Peter,” Stiles continued in the same resigned tone of voice.

Peter didn’t dignify that with a response, instead beginning to unpack their things and store them in the drawers and closets.  When he got to Stiles’s backpack, however, the boy finally roused, snatching it away from him.

“Hey, that’s my stuff, man.  It doesn’t need to be unpacked.”  He clutched the bag to his chest.

“I think it does.” Peter let his eyes flash blue, and barely restrained a growl as he ripped the offending luggage from Stiles with his werewolf strength. Holding Stiles away from him with one arm, he dumped the backpack out on the bed, sifting through the contents until he found what he was looking for—a large, unmarked prescription bottle filled with a motley assortment of pills.

“Hey, that’s my Adderall, what the hell!  What are you doing?”  Stiles’s voice sounded increasingly high and panicked as Peter shoved him to the floor.  He moved to the bathroom with preternatural speed, uncapping the bottle and dumping the drugs into the toilet.  Stiles launched himself at Peter, punching and scratching him, screaming in rage as the werewolf flushed them. 

Peter held him tightly, keeping him from hurting himself, until the boy was finally exhausted.  He picked Stiles up and laid him on the bed, resting his hand on the teen’s shoulder as Stiles buried his face in the pillows and sobbed brokenly.  He rubbed gentle circles on Stiles’ back, making nonsensical noises that he hoped came across as comforting.  Seeing the normally manic, energetic boy lying limp, like a puppet with his strings cut, tore at Peter’s heart. He felt a strong surge of protectiveness; the urge to lock Stiles up somewhere were nothing could hurt him, and just take care of him.  And for the next week at least, that’s exactly what he intended to do.

 

Peter had already ordered breakfast by the time Stiles awoke the next morning.  His sleep hadn’t been peaceful; he’d had nightmares several times and half-woke, begging Peter for something to help him pass out.  He’d stayed close by until daylight started seeping through the curtains, then dialed room service and requested one of practically everything on the menu.  The research he’d done on Stiles’s stash suggested he’d mostly been using amphetamines, and then sleeping pills and Xanax to calm the anxiety and help him sleep.  Depending on the length of time he’d been using—Peter guessed a couple of months, since shortly after they defeated the Alpha Pack—he would probably be pretty hungry when he woke up.

Right now he looked truly peaceful for the first time all night.  His face was still thinner than Peter was comfortable with, the circles under his eyes worryingly dark. Peter couldn’t resist running his hand gently through Stiles’s dark brown hair, so much longer than it had been when Peter had offered him the bite.  If Stiles had accepted, they wouldn’t have to go through all this right now.  He wished it were still an option; that he had a way to spare the teen all this pain.

Even as he thought it, he scoffed at himself.  No use pretending his motives were wholly altruistic—they rarely were.  If Stiles had accepted the bite from him, they would be bound together.  Stiles’s wolf would recognize the mating call Peter felt singing in his own blood, and he wouldn’t have to do this dance of figuring out how to get him to understand and accept that they belonged together.

There was nothing he could do about it this week, though, despite their somewhat suggestive surroundings.  Stiles was in no shape to consent to anything meaningful, and as much confidence as Peter had in his methods of persuasion, that was no way to begin a life as mates.  Reluctantly withdrawing his hand from the boy’s soft hair, he padded quietly over to the door on bare feet, cracking it open and peering down the hall.  He didn’t want room service to wake Stiles by knocking, now that he was finally getting some rest.

“Running out on me already?” Stiles said, his voice sleepy and muffled by the pillow his face was mashed into.

Peter closed the door and came to sit on the edge of the bed.  “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” Stiles groaned. “And my head is _killing_ me.”

“Since there didn’t seem to be any painkillers in that impressive little stash of yours, you can have two Tylenol for your head. _After_ you eat something.”  Stiles’s glare faded as he sat up gingerly and noticed the real concern on the older werewolf’s face.

“Stiles,” Peter said softly, unable to keep the pain completely out of his voice. “How long have you been doing this to yourself?”

Stiles looked down at his hands for a few moments, before saying just as quietly, “A little over two months. Since the Alpha Pack… I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t concentrate when I was awake.  The nightmares…

“I started just taking more Adderall, but then I needed something to help me sleep, and something for the panic attacks.  I guess it just kind of snowballed from there.”  He looked up, meeting Peter’s gaze for the first time. “Thank you.”

It took all of Peter’s willpower not to lean forward and kiss him.  “You don’t need to thank me.  You shouldn’t have had to deal with that alone in the first place.  You _won’t_ have to, ever again.”

He was saved by a knock on the door from the questions Stiles was opening his mouth to ask.  Room service wheeled a cart into the room, impressively full of food, and Peter gave the man a generous tip.  He passed the next half-hour mainly watching Stiles devour everything in sight.  He knew it was a side effect of the withdrawal, but his wolf felt smug anyway at providing so well for its mate. 

Luckily, after only two months of using, the physical symptoms of withdrawal shouldn’t be too bad, but the emotional issues…those would take some work.

 

After they finished eating, Peter ushered Stiles into the bathroom for a soak, then curled up in an armchair with a book while housekeeping tidied the room, trying very hard not to think of the slender, beautiful boy in the next room, naked in a tub more than big enough for two.  He’d left a fresh change of clothes on the counter; there was no way his willpower would survive the sight of Stiles dripping wet and clad only in a towel.  He growled at the image and concentrated harder on his book.

Thankfully, Stiles came out of the bathroom fully dressed, his hair sticking up in wet spikes.  He collapsed on the sofa opposite Peter like all his muscles had suddenly stopped working.  Peter continued to pretend to read until a bare foot nudged the cover of his book.  He lowered it to find the boy staring at him with a sort of resigned curiosity.

“So, I guess Derek put you up to this, huh? Assigned you to babysit the Pack screw-up?” His mouth twisted bitterly on the last word.

Peter wanted to shake him, but he made himself answer evenly.  “No. It was more the other way around, actually.”

“So you _were_ trying to get me alone, I knew it!” For a second Stiles looked like himself, ridiculously triumphant, and it surprised a smile out of the older wolf.  Then he slumped back against the cushions and closed his eyes, apparently exhausted by the short outburst.

“Yes, Stiles, because sick, exhausted, underweight teens are _exactly_ my type,” Peter drawled, then mentally kicked himself when Stiles winced.

Stiles opened his eyes again, looking suddenly very vulnerable and young. “Then why, Peter? Why go to all this trouble for _me_?”

Peter’s heart wrenched again, and he put down his book and went to sit on the sofa next to Stiles, who turned to face him.  “Do you remember what Derek told Scott, when he was still learning, about needing an anchor?”

“Yeah, all werewolves need an anchor to tie their humanity to, keep themselves in control of the change.”

“Not just werewolves.  An Emissary needs an anchor, too, to keep from losing themselves to the magic or getting overwhelmed by the needs of the Pack.” 

“Like the Darach.” Stiles nodded.

“You need an anchor too, Stiles. You’ve been letting the needs of the Pack overwhelm you, and not letting them help you in return when you needed it.” Peter laid his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder.

“Because I’m not really part of the Pack, am I? I’m just a weak little human who tags along and is occasionally useful. And now I’m not even that.”  A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it on his sleeve furiously.

Peter’s grip tightened. “You are _so much_ more than that, Stiles,” he said fiercely. “You are the heart of this Pack, and when you suffer the rest of us suffer, whether we realize it or not.  You need to let yourself lean on someone.” He lifted Stiles’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Let me be your anchor, Stiles.”

Suspicion warred with hope in Stiles’s whisky-brown eyes. “And what’s in it for you?”

Peter leaned forward and kissed his forehead.  “I don’t have to watch you drown.”


End file.
